Verge of Darkness
*******
Toran opened his sleep-misted eyes, and swung his legs off his uncomfortable pallet onto the hard, bare floor of the shepherd’s hut. Muttering a string of heartfelt obscenities, he scratched at his belly.
The source of his unhappiness was many-fold.
He hated this lonely duty of being stuck in the middle of nowhere in this miserable flea-infested hut. But it was his turn to care for the herd of sheep that provided the family’s livelihood. Thankfully, his brother Corann would be taking his place come the morning.
No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t rid the hut of the pesky fleas that had left little red bumps on his belly and groin. They itched like the Demonlord’s spittle.
With the not inconsiderable help of the now empty bottle of barley liquor lying on the floor next to his wooden pallet, he had finally drifted off to sleep. He had been having the most delicious dream involving two golden-haired twin sisters indulging his every desire, when the infernal yapping of his dogs jerked him awake at the most inopportune moment.
His head didn’t feel too good as he stumbled over to the door. Pulling his large hunting knife from its scabbard hanging on a hook, he lifted the latch, pushed open the door, and stepped outside.
A gibbous moon hung in the night sky. Stifling a yawn, Toran called to his dogs.
Usually, they would come running, but there was no sight of them. A flea nipped at his chin beneath his thick beard. Cursing, he scratched at the irritation, and wondering where his pigging dogs were, wandered over to the sheep pen.
The sheep were huddled together at the far end of the enclosure. As Toran watched, the timbers gave way under their weight, and as one they stampeded away into the night.
He cursed once again. Standing there helplessly, he fretted over the long night’s work it would take to round them up. But where in the seven hells were those pigging dogs?
A sudden chill hit him. The summer’s night was cool. Maybe an early autumn was in the air. He turned back toward the hut to get his cloak and froze in mid stride, his heart beating a loud drum fit to burst from his chest.
It was no unseasonal-cool evening that had made him shiver, but the unearthly chill emanating from the figure floating toward him. Hideously tall and cadaver-thin, he could see right through it in places.
“Beleth’s balls,” he whispered, eyes widening in horror. “From which hell did you wander from?” Toran was not a weak man nor a coward. Burly, with a thick girth, powerful chest, and arms that could lift a barrel of ale over his head, he hefted his hunting knife. “Come on hellspawn,” he snarled. “I’ll slit your gizzard open.”
As the silent figure closed, Toran slashed his knife across its belly. The blade met little resistance, but no wound appeared.
Horrified, and unable to catch his breath as his heart hammered in his chest, Toran took half a step back to retain his balance. Eyes alight with malicious triumph, the figure thrust its head forward. Its mouth yawned open, displaying an absence of teeth. A tongue as long and thick as Toran’s arm whipped out and wrapped itself around his neck.
Oddly, Toran couldn’t feel the weight of the tongue or any constriction as he was hoisted until he was at eye-level with the creature. Its horrific gaze locked onto his eyes, and he sensed and felt the terrible hunger within it. Then the pain began. Indescribable and all-consuming, it felt like his insides and very soul were being sucked out of him through that tongue and into those mocking yellow eyes. His thick fingers clutched at the tongue, hoping to yank it from his neck, but found he couldn’t grip it. His legs kicked futilely as he dangled. He wanted to scream his agony, but couldn’t. A searing heat, then numbing cold suffused him, then all feeling ceased.
Herald’s tongue retracted back into his maw, and a bundle of clothes and bones rattled to the ground.
Black Threads
Stygian-dark clouds pregnant with menace seethed and roiled across the sky. Lightning lanced and ripped across the heavens, throwing the merchantman, the Mingzhu, and Liang’s slender figure into sharp relief. Huge waves surged and crashed against the ship, threatening to rip asunder the brazen interloper and send her to a watery grave.
The helmsman, knuckles white against the tiller, fought grimly to steer the ship bow-first into the giant waves. Should the waves hit her broadside, she would be rolled and smashed into so much kindling.
The Mingzhu danced and dipped on the huge swells.
Another mammoth wave washed across the length of the merchantman, drenching Liang as she stood, her back to the main mast. Gripping the iron railings that encircled the base, she threw her head back in exultation as the briny water washed across her face plastering her hair against her head.
The ship’s captain, a barrel-chested, bow-legged man named Tao-Lin, had been stricken with horror when Liang took her post as the storm approached. He had been charged with her safety by the lord Xiang Tse, and dreaded the consequences should he report her swept overboard in a storm, upon returning to port.
But Liang was no ordinary woman. Trained by the weapons-master Xiang Tse, few could match her with a blade. She was descended from the legendary Storm Dancer, Kyung-Su. A storm at sea was a new experience, and one she was determined to fully enjoy.
Liang had always loved storms, and as a child, delighted playing in the gardens of the Jade Castle as fearsome storms ripped and roared overhead. Sometimes she would sit cross-legged on the wet grass, eyes following the coruscating path of the lightning across the sky, giggling with delight as thunder cracked, threatening to rip the world asunder.
Full understanding of her uniqueness only came to her after Xiang Tse shed light on her antecedents that last night at the castle.
As they sat high up in his study on the uppermost floor, Xiang Tse had revealed they were not blood related. He wasn’t her uncle. She had been brought to the castle as a child by a wandering warrior from the neighbouring kingdom of Gaekche.
Xiang Tse’s mother had cared for her until she was old enough to pass into his care. The warrior left Liang’s birthright with Xiang Tse’s, telling him he would know the right time to present it to her.
Xiang Tse had slid a tied bundle across the desk. Untying it, Liang saw three scabbarded swords. Grasping one, she gently slid the blade out. It was of a design she hadn’t seen before. A little longer than her arm, the slightly curved single-edged blade had an unusual bluish tint. She was as surprised as Xiang Tse, as she read aloud the runes beautifully etched along the blade. “I am of the thunder of the heavens.” The runes on the identical second sword read: “I am of the lightning of the heavens.” The third, also identical, read: “I bring harmony to the bearers.”
Xiang Tse told her these were the legendary Storm Blades forged by the great sword maker, Nahae Isageum, from a rock that fell from the sky. The Storm Dancer, Kyung–Su had wielded the Storm Blades when she helped defeat a great evil a thousand years earlier. She had disappeared from recorded history after that. But the swords finding their way down the line through the aeons to Liang, anointed her as the Storm Dancer’s last living descendant.
Her ability to read the inscriptions on the swords provided definitive proof – if any was needed. Xiang Tse had told her of his attempts to decipher the runes over the years. He had consulted ancient texts and the like, but to no avail.
Though taken somewhat aback, Liang hadn’t been shocked by the revelations. She had always felt different, such as her uncanny love of storms, and inclination toward twin blades when Xiang Tse took her under his tutelage.
Xiang Tse told her it was time for her to leave the Jade Castle and seek her own path. He suggested she might wish to seek Pagan out in Petralis. She had been disappointed he hadn’t said goodbye to her before he left, and had missed him these past few years. Her heart soared at the prospect of seeing him again, and she had no hesitation taking up Xiang Tse’s advice.